


Pain

by ObiWannabe



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObiWannabe/pseuds/ObiWannabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Jedi learn the same lesson about the Force the hard way, several years apart.  Warnings for violence and torture. Shifts between present and past (flashbacks) a few times (marked by asterisks). Originally posted to the QGJDL in 2001.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain

Darkness surrounded him, thick and stifling with the heat of the ship’s nearby engines. His bonds were primitive at best, metal shackles binding his wrists and a simple locked door within his reach, but were he to reach out with the Force and free himself, there was nowhere he could go, no one to whom he could turn for help. Besides, he had tried that once already, but when his captors had come in to find the shackles on the floor, he had received an even harsher beating than usual in reward for his fleeting moments of ease. Now the wrist shackles were chained to a bolt in the floor, which could probably be twisted out of recognition with an extremely powerful and concentrated wave of the Force, but in this state he lacked the strength to focus it to that degree. It was enough of an effort to keep the mysterious, eternal power every Jedi allied himself with wrapped like armor around his mind and body, keeping him alive, alert, and sane. It would be best if he submitted to being chained down like a beast for the time being, trusting that rescue or relief would come soon.

There was no way to tell how many days Qui-Gon had been imprisoned on this ship. In space there is no reckoning of time, no suns to rise and fall, and even less so when locked in a closet-sized room hastily turned into a detention cell, located so close to the power generators for the engines that the tiny space was warmer than the steamy jungles of Rodia. No light filtered its way to the Jedi Master except when his captors came to question or beat him, often beginning with the former and ending in the latter. In the infinite spaces between visits, Qui-Gon meditated, withdrawing deep into the calming power of the Force to heal his injuries and sustain his mind against the repeated assaults. He noted to himself with grim amusement that these brutes were using every cliché of torture: depriving him of food and water, keeping him in total darkness only to force mind-numbingly bright lights on him when they came to question him, stripping him of all his clothing but his trousers and striking the harshest blows on his bare skin. They used no technology to torture him, only steel rods to beat him, blades to cut him and leave him to bleed, and the raw power of fists and boots to bruise and batter his powerful body. Qui-Gon did not attempt to fool himself, they were brutal and it was excruciatingly painful. But the Force was with him. It quieted his anger, soothed his pain. It calmed his mind and kept him centered on the pure core of his soul where all was at rest and waiting patiently for the end. He merely took their blows, endured the sting of sweat running into open wounds, without flinching. And at every passing minute he silently thanked the Force for its all-sustaining power. _There was a time I had no such control_ , he reminded himself, musing while meditating in his nearly permanent kneeling stance. _Even this is a lesson I nearly failed to learn._

***

He had been a young, handsome tree of a man, newly-Knighted, taking his first steps on his own. Apprenticeship had taught him many things, but his youth made him briefly blind to the lessons that not even the greatest Jedi Master could teach a Padawan in the traditional way. Qui-Gon Jinn was a promising Jedi Knight, raw masculine power rippling through his lean, broad-chested body, the even greater power of an alert, active mind evident in the flame kindled in his gray-blue eyes. He was not a brash, cocky man like many young Knights could be, but a gentle giant, a quiet, restive warrior, rather like a panther crouched on a branch lying in wait for the first whiff of prey to catch its attention. He always knew exactly what he had to do to accomplish his missions, and he did it each time without hesitating, no matter how risky his plans might have seemed to some who lacked his training and his faith in the Force. He trusted he could do it, and he did it, and beings of many races spoke highly of him behind his back.

Qui-Gon found himself stepping off a transport onto the leafy world of Kallus, about a year into his Knighthood and ready to prove himself yet again. The Kallan envoys met him at the end of the ramp, bobbing their heads repeatedly in a greeting intended to convey trust and respect to their visitor. Qui-Gon nodded once to acknowledge the cluster of reptilian officials, his chestnut hair falling into his eyes for a moment until the wind ruffled it back the other way. “Welcome, good Jedi,” one envoy croaked. “We are honored by your visit. You are Qui-Gon Jinn, yes?”

“Yes,” the tall man nodded, his voice soft and even. “I received word that you requested me by name. Is there something in particular you wish me to do?”

“In time, in time,” the official assured, waving one spindly hand. “We have been instructed to see you to the palace. Lord Thispin wishes it.”

Qui-Gon nodded again, and the reptiles scurried away from him, expecting him to follow. His great, long-legged strides threatened to overtake the delicate paces of the Kallans, so he relaxed his pace and remained appropriately behind them. As they walked through the winding streets, he looked around him in interest, taking in as much information through sight, sound, and smell as he could. Kallus was a mostly self-contained world whose reptilian native residents seldom could be found anywhere else in the galaxy. Little was known of them, for they disliked interstellar travel and were greatly attached to their home world, and only had dealings with outsiders for the sake of trade. Qui-Gon knew this much going into the mission, for it was standard procedure to research strange worlds before landing on them and trying to help them solve their problems. A cursory glance at the city crawling around him brought alive the dry facts he had read in the reports. Kallus was green, warm, and lovely. Giant trees with wide, spreading limbs arched over his head, making every street a bright green tunnel alive with rustlings and perfumed breeze. Structures were woven right into limbs and underbrush, so much so that it was hard to tell where the construction ended and the natural life began. Kallans scurried everywhere, their lithe, whiplike bodies snaking in and out of the trees. Some were green, some reddish, and some a smoky blue, their smooth hides covered with bands of leather and swatches of brightly-colored fabric. Several came across the envoys’ path and paused to bob their heads respectfully on their long necks. The leading official just kept walking, though some of his comrades appropriately responded to the citizens’ greetings. Qui-Gon noted this, as he noted everything.

The trees thinned out and the road broke into a clearing, which revealed a modern-looking metal and stone edifice climbing neatly up the terraced hillside. Red-skinned guards stood at the gates, not even flinching or twitching a tail as the envoys and their guest passed them and entered into the landscaped grounds of the palace. The wind which had been lazily tossing at the canopy was stronger here in the open, and tugged briskly at Qui-Gon’s brown robe and tousled brown hair. He glanced to either side of him as he followed the skittering Kallans through the courtyard, making himself aware of as much as possible. The distance from the palace grounds to the tree-line. The number of windows and portals in the front of the edifice. The placement of guards, and the fact that all of them had red hides. He was infinitely aware of the moment, and everything in it, as was his instinct upon entering an unfamiliar situation. He was unsure why he had been called to Kallus, and that had all his senses awake.

The Jedi Knight was ushered with great reverence into a large, spacious chamber at the rear of the palace’s main level, his boots tapping out a staccato rhythm on the polished stone floor. As he approached the tall windows which looked out on a cultivated garden, he heard a hissing that sounded distinctly threatening. Qui-Gon looked sharply around and noticed a blue-skinned Kallan standing next to one window, his hide making him blend in with the décor. “I thought I told you,” the creature growled, “no interruptions.”

“My lord,” one envoy hissed, “Jedi Knight Qui-Gon Jinn is here.”

The Kallan whipped sharply around, his long, prehensile tail slashing at the curtains, and he immediately straightened up upon seeing the human standing calmly in the center of the room. “Ah, forgiveness,” he requested of his visitor. “I was not aware. Please, enter. You, leave us!” he suddenly snapped at the envoys. They bobbed their heads furiously and skittered out.

Qui-Gon glanced briefly behind him at the officials’ hasty retreat. “Is there something wrong?”

“Only that which you have come here to stop. I am Thispin, Lord of Kallus,” the creature said with distinct restraint, stepping forward.

Qui-Gon bowed respectfully. “You requested my assistance.”

“I did. You come highly recommended.” Thispin strode elegantly forward on his stilted legs. He had to look up to face his guest, for he, like most Kallans, was no more than five feet tall when standing at ease. Unlike his people, his garb was soft, comfortable and very rich, and he wore jewels. “I will tell you right now what the reason is. Then, you may proceed as you wish.” The Jedi nodded in acceptance of the terms, though he began plying the Force to determine whether the words spoken to him were true or concealed another purpose. “I am threatened, Qui-Gon. My people are unhappy with me.”

“They seemed quite happy to me,” Qui-Gon noted. “At least, those I passed on my way here.”

“Appearances deceive,” Thispin said bluntly, with a hint of a hiss in his throat. “I have done them no wrong, yet a faction has arisen which seeks to depose me. The efforts of my guardians to seek out this faction and bring them in to answer for their threats and crimes have been thwarted. Kallans will not speak openly of the threat, nor of their kin who may be my enemies. I can only seek help from outside, and you Jedi with your mysterious senses may be able to uncover what my own people cannot.”

Qui-Gon did not let his reaction show on his face, restraining his own opinion. Thispin seemed to be telling the truth, not concealing anything. The Kallan lord stood upright, not cowering, assured that he was doing a necessary thing. Qui-Gon clasped his hands in front of him and let his robe sleeves drape over them. “You wish for me to seek out the leaders of this faction?”

“And apprehend them, yes,” Thispin said confidently. “All information you could need is here in the palace, in our database. We are diligent at making reports of unusual activity.”

“Then, I shall have a look at them before making any plans,” Qui-Gon informed the lord. “Rest assured, Lord Thispin, I will not let harm come to you.”

“Good and well.” He summoned a servant, then, and directed the creeping young female to give the Jedi quarters and access to anything he requested, before withdrawing himself.

“This way, my lord,” the servant directed, her head bobbing nervously as she slunk along the corridor and up one level to posh quarters overlooking the main grounds of the palace. She hurriedly checked to see that everything the guest could need was in order. Kallans typically slept on round, flexible mats stuffed with seeds or grains, to cushion their slender reptilian bodies, so the servant profusely apologized for a lack of “human” conveniences. “If you wish another pad, more blankets, anything my lord,” she burbled, “please say.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘my lord,’” Qui-Gon gently assured her. “My name is Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Yes, my…Jinn, sir,” the servant murmured in embarrassment.

“The accommodations will be fine,” he said with a kind smile. “Thank you.”

“If you need for anything, say,” she reminded him, slithering to the windows—no, not windows. Gilded doors which opened outwards on hinges. She pressed them open and beckoned him to follow. “You are favored. The Lord gave you a balcony.”

Qui-Gon eagerly stepped out onto the balcony and took a deep breath of the scented air. Between the gardens below and a planet full of trees, a soothing perfume floated constantly on the air, except inside the palace where artificial environmental systems kept the air sterile and cold. For the first time since stepping onto Kallan soil, Qui-Gon’s apprehension about his mission eased, and he found himself smiling. “Thank you. This is very nice,” he said to the servant.

She bobbed her head again, and then looked furtively around. “Saw him, did you? Lord Thispin?”

“Of course,” the Knight replied, curious at her sudden secretiveness.

“Did he seem…strange to you, sir? At all?”

“The meeting was very brief,” Qui-Gon admitted. “I saw nothing greatly unusual. Why do you ask?”

The servant’s head flicked around again. “I dare not say!” she whispered. “I brought you here to the balcony because no one can watch or hear out here. I warn you, Jedi Qui-Gon. Thispin is dangerous. He is not what he seems. There are some who say he is going mad. I can tell you no more.” She whipped around and headed back inside, just barely missing Qui-Gon’s knees with her tail. He followed, listening and watching carefully. “Please ring if you need assistance. I am on call at all hours.” She bobbed her head, a little less nervously this time, and drifted out of the room.

Qui-Gon stood there a while longer, gazing at the doors while his mind grappled to comprehend the rush of information. Two conflicting stories lay before him, one from an agitated but self-controlled leader, one from a frightened servant. His instincts told him to trust the lesser man, but he would wait and investigate before deciding whose story was the truer. Rousing himself from thought, he glanced around the room as if expecting to see surveillance cameras peering at him. There was nothing to outwardly indicate that he was being watched, but he knew from times and missions past to expect that royal security could certainly have him under surveillance. Sliding his robe off his shoulders, the young Jedi Knight sat at a computer console for a while, tapping his way through Kallan records, before deciding to stretch out on the uniquely Kallan bed and see if its construction suited his tastes. At six feet, four inches, there was quite a bit of him hanging off one end, but the grainy stuffing cradled him most comfortably and molded to his body. Before long, he had dozed off, though one corner of his mind was alert and tuned in to the ever-present Force.

It was the alert corner of his mind which woke him when someone approached his door. He was already sitting up and calling out “Come in,” when a comm signal buzzed. The door swished open to admit a familiar visitor, one of the envoys who had met him at the spaceport. He was a quick and agile, green-toned lizard, with intelligent eyes glittering like jewels in his pointed head. “Yes?” Qui-Gon wondered of him.

“My name is Hassim,” the creature introduced. “I am here to see if I can be of aid to you, Knight Jinn.”

Qui-Gon combed his fingers through his unruly hair, sweeping strands of it back from his temples. It had grown out from the close-cropped Padawan cut, but was still short by most standards, flopping youthfully over his forehead, especially upon waking. “I was just resting,” he admitted. “However, now that you’re here, there is something I would like to do.”

“Yes? Say,” Hassim entreated.

“I would like to take a walk through the city, perhaps meet some of your people,” Qui-Gon said. “Would that be a problem?”

Hassim cocked his head and twitched his tail. “In the city, a problem? Ah, no. I think not. Lord Thispin expects you would go out to seek his enemies, yes? But perhaps I should go as a guide.”

Qui-Gon nodded slightly. He expected such an offer. “Very well, I could use one.”

The Jedi and his guide left the palace uncontested, and roamed freely through the tree-covered streets for most of the afternoon. Hassim was helpful, pointing out where things lay in relation to each other, lecturing on the history and culture of the Kallan with all the air of a tour guide at an amusement park. He showed Qui-Gon where to find the best davva fruit, which roads would take him to the center of the city, and how to find a guardian in case of trouble. The guardians were not hard to find, though, they patrolled regularly along the streets, leather helms covering their reptile heads, their red hides standing out among the scores of green-skinned Kallans prancing around the city. “Tell me, Hassim,” Qui-Gon wondered at one point. “Is there a difference between the races of Kallan? I see three colors, but I am not aware of any significance to them.”

For the first time, Hassim looked uncomfortable. “Well,” he began, “most Kallans do not see a difference. Green is the most common race, genetically. Red is not so common, and blue is rather rare.”

“Every guardian I’ve seen is red,” the Jedi noted.

The palace official nodded. “That is so.”

“Is there a reason?”

Hassim nearly ignored the question. After a long silence, he merely muttered, “It is a whim of Lord Thispin’s, pay it no mind.” Qui-Gon sensed, though, that the answer was much more complicated than that. However, he knew better than to press, and continued to follow his guide. Being the only human there, he stood out plainly. Kallans of all ages stared at him, but most of them also bobbed their heads in the gesture of great respect and awe. He acknowledged them with a smile, sending young ones scampering away shyly and causing older males to nod back in mutual understanding that he considered himself no more or less than themselves.

They were coming around a corner framed with high, flowering shrubs with lilac-colored blossoms swaying in the breeze when a Kallan male racing up the intersecting street crashed full into Qui-Gon, knocking them both over. The offending stranger bounded up, startled, when he saw that he had bowled over a human. “What is this?” he cried breathlessly.

Qui-Gon pushed himself to his feet, brushing himself off. “It’s all right, just an accident,” he assured. “Are you all right?”

“Ay! Stop him!” came a shout up the street. The Kallan hissed in warning and raced off again, his long, spindly legs carrying him away faster than anyone Qui-Gon had ever seen. A pair of guardians overtook them and passed, more interested in the fleeing creature.

“Apologies!” Hassim squeaked. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” the Jedi reassured with a smile. “He was coming rather fast, though.”

Hassim looked backwards and hissed a little. But he said nothing, determined to continue where he had left off before the interruption. He pulled a pocket-sized device from his belt and shivered when he looked at it. “I am late,” he muttered. “I should be at the palace. Apologies, Knight Jinn, we must go back.”

“If you don’t mind,” Qui-Gon said diplomatically, “I would like to look around some more. I can find my way back to the palace later.”

Hassim twitched in obvious fear. “But, I…ach. Very well,” he relented. “I will let someone know that you are out. Just in case.”

“Thank you.” Qui-Gon bowed his head briefly and started away before Hassim could change his mind. He had been getting the feeling that Hassim, despite his best intentions and kind manner, was sent to keep an eye on him, so if he wanted to find out the things he really wanted to know, he would have to get rid of his shadow. The opportunity presented itself, as opportunities always do, and he took it. He was now free to roam the city and do as he pleased, at least until it started to get dark and he would have to head back to the palace. The first thing he did as soon as Hassim had departed was turn and go back in the direction his assailant had been heading.

Before long, Qui-Gon became aware that there was a disturbance somewhere nearby. He could sense it, and then hear it—the chatter of many reptilian voices raised in anger. Distracted from his search, he crossed several streets to a small glade where it looked like a fight was about to break out. A handful of guardians were corralling several Kallan citizens, who hissed and yelled at their handling of the situation. They moved just slightly, and Qui-Gon could see the young male who had knocked him over lying on the ground, his long legs trussed together with his whiplike tail, blood tricking from the corner of his elongated mouth. His eyes were half-closed, a third eyelid raised over them for protection. Qui-Gon sent out a wave of the Force and realized the extent of the Kallan’s injuries. He strode into the glade, the sight of his tall figure emerging from behind a building stunning the riotous crowd into awed silence. The guardians turned and regarded him, and Qui-Gon wasn’t sure at that moment whether all the guardians in the town knew of his presence here. “What is going on?” he questioned, keeping his voice gentle.

“Nothing of your concern, stranger,” one of the guardians answered curtly. “Be off with you.”

“I was assaulted by this…person earlier,” Qui-Gon explained. “Who is he? What has he done?”

A corner of the Jedi’s sense told him that the captive let his third eyelid slide open so he could see what was happening. The curt guardian stepped forward, holding an electropike angled before his body. “He is a dissident,” he said, flicking his tail angrily. “He ran from authority when confronted for his crimes. He has resisted. You say he assaulted you?”

“It was an accident,” Qui-Gon explained, even though he never believed in accidents. He faced the guardians squarely, for they were all eyeing him now, and summoned the Force to his command. A surreptitious wave of his hand brought it to bear on the minds of the Kallans. “You should let him go.”

“If it was an accident, we can let him go,” one repeated. Another glanced at him in astonishment.

Qui-Gon waggled his fingers again, his gray eyes holding the guardians captive to his will. “You can go now.”

“Come, we shall go,” the guardian beckoned his comrades. Though at least one of them looked unsure, they obeyed, and in moments had left the Kallan citizens alone. Several ran forward and untied their friend, carefully lifting him up and carrying him away. Others stared in amazement at Qui-Gon and turned and ran off. Noting that no one objected to his presence, Qui-Gon followed the group carrying the fallen male to safety.

The cluster of green-skinned Kallans disappeared into a gap in the shrubbery. Glancing back to make sure no one saw him, the Jedi ducked beneath the tree limbs and went with them, following them through thicker trees along a barely-existent path to a cluster of structures well away from any known roads. The injured one was brought inside, and still no one objected when the human accompanied them. Someone was already tending to the young male’s injuries, and he was starting to come around. Though exhausted and hurting, he waved off help and pointed up at Qui-Gon. “You. Who are you? You came to my aid.”

“I am Qui-Gon Jinn, a Jedi Knight.” Qui-Gon bowed deeply to the Kallans.

“Why did you help me?”

Nothing served him better than the truth. “I sensed you were in trouble, that those guards were probably not going to give you the aid you needed. My instincts told me you needed my help.”

The young male collapsed back on the pad on which he lay. One of the others gently took Qui-Gon aside with slender, spatulate fingers on his arm. “My friend Olla is in your debt for saving him,” she said quietly. “We are all grateful, Jedi Knight.”

“Why were the guardians after him?” Qui-Gon wondered. “They said he is a dissident?”

“Olla, like many of us, speaks out against Lord Thispin’s changes,” the female hissed. “The Lord is going mad. He is changing that which has been unchanged for generations, to his benefit and our loss. His mind is crumbling and he refuses to admit it! If we question him, we are branded his enemies, and dealt with accordingly. And his dealings are harsh.”

Qui-Gon listened intently, focused, though he had neither seen nor sensed anything in Thispin to indicate madness, and had noticed nothing harsh anywhere on the palace grounds or in its records. Everything was neat, clean, and beautiful. And as he listened to the female’s story, he knew which side he wanted to believe. “You must know,” he murmured, “I was summoned to Kallus by Lord Thispin himself, to root out the radicals and bring them in.”

The creature shrank back from him. “Then you are a spy!”

“I am a Jedi,” Qui-Gon corrected, aware that all eyes were now on him. “My duty is to maintain peace and justice, not to obey any one leader. If his persecution is unjust, then I will help you, rather than Thispin. But I must know more.”

***

Master Qui-Gon breathed slowly, as deeply as he could, maintaining a rhythm conducive to the trance he had put himself into. He meditated on his memories, on the sparkle of sunlight through the leaves of Kallus and the gemstone eyes of its graceful inhabitants. He did not regret making the instant decision to help the dissident faction—not then, not now. Even after nearly three decades, he was still making decisions based on instinct, based on the moment. He knew his decision was right, but he had paid for it dearly.

The door to his prison whirred open, and the blazing light from the hallway stabbed through his closed eyes. A hand struck his face, sending him reeling backwards. At first the men had been no stronger than he, and a slap to the face gave him no more than a sting. But after days of this, with no food or water and barely any sleep, Qui-Gon had weakened to the point where resistance was useless. Repeated strikes bloodied his lips, while any attempt to open his eyes and see his attackers failed. A foot crashed into his stomach and he doubled over, gasping for breath with his face pressed to the warm metal floor. A hand entangled itself in his long hair and yanked him up. They yelled at him, demanded things of him, but he had nothing to give them. The hand throttled his head until his balance wavered precariously, and then threw him down again. The door clanged shut.

The Jedi Master lay face down for a while, catching his breath, feeling the warm tickle of blood coming from his nose and mouth, knowing it was matting in his beard. He swallowed hard, though the salty taste nearly made him gag. At last, he grabbed onto the chains holding him to the floor and used them to steady himself, prying his body off the floor and settling it back into the kneeling stance for meditation. He opened his eyes briefly, in the dark, fluttered his eyelids to make sure they still worked, and then closed them again to resume his meditation. He sank into the Force’s deep, binding embrace, letting it soothe away the jangles of pain in his jaw, his abdomen, his arms and legs. He concentrated first on restoring his balance, then clearing his head of pain and fatigue. Once that was accomplished, he set the Force to work on clotting his blood and kneading away the cramps in his legs. He was intimately connected to the Force, his mind lost in its encircling power, and soon found himself able to recall memories again. He accepted the memories, the lesson taught, and used them to quiet his mind so that his body could heal.

***

Young Qui-Gon spent hours with the Kallan dissidents, hearing their stories and taking in all the information he possibly could. When everyone but the immediate family and friends of Olla left to take meals in their homes, and he was offered the chance to share a meal with Olla’s family, Qui-Gon realized that it was late and the palace was likely worried about him. No doubt they would think about sending searchers out, or alerting the guardians to be on the watch for him. He hoped Hassim would not be reprimanded for leaving him, but he had no intention of going back to the palace just yet. There was too much to know.

Olla had recovered quickly, though his strength was spent and he was advised to rest for a day or two. He sat on his pad while his family sat around him, eating and talking. “You see, Qui-Gon,” he said, “why we speak out. These are not small matters. Lives are at stake.”

“I agree,” Qui-Gon said immediately. “The problem is, I saw no madness in Lord Thispin.”

“Did you know to look for madness?” Olla said shrewdly. “Kallan do not go mad in the same way as humans. We are different. You will not see him scrabbling at the walls or gibbering like a…a what do they call them?”

“Wookiee?” someone offered.

“No, no…that human word. Ah, yes! Lunatic. You will not see that,” Olla cautioned. “But if you listen to what he says, mark his decisions and the passion which he employs for his absurd ideas, you will know.”

A shred of skepticism remained in Qui-Gon’s mind yet, but he had learned from listening to the stories of these hunted creatures that their lord preferred to persecute them for objecting to his ideas instead of listening to them, or simply ignoring their protests. It didn’t feel right. There was no proof of their story yet, but his instincts told him to trust them anyway. He employed the Force while he listened, sensing the bitterness, anger, and fear of the Kallans. They feared for their lives and for their friends and kin, and rightly so. More than once a tale was told of someone being arrested, taken in, never to be heard from again. Sometimes the bodies were discovered, sometimes they weren’t.

The sun had set and a vibrant darkness was on the land when the Jedi Knight finally snuck out of the hidden residence and was guided by Olla’s brother back to the main streets of the city. Qui-Gon thanked his guide and offered another reassurance that he would do what he could about the plight of the oppressed Kallans. He headed back to the palace at a casual pace, already thinking of what to tell Thispin if he asked after his whereabouts, listening to insects whirring and singing in the trees for the joy of night. He saw no guardians, not until he reached the gates of the palace and surprised the two on duty there. They let him in immediately, and he strode right up to the door and in through the main halls without being accosted. He started for the great hall where he had first met the Lord of Kallus, hoping to find him there and explain his tardiness, but a great blue lizard backed up by guardians met him before he could get that far. “Jedi Knight Jinn,” he purred. “We were concerned. We thought you had been lost.”

“I was merely getting to know the people of your city,” Qui-Gon said pleasantly, which was technically the truth. “Some of them offered me a chance to eat with them, so I did, and heard great stories of the beauty and richness of Kallus. My apologies if I have inconvenienced Lord Thispin. He did give me leave to pursue his problem at my own pace.”

“As I have heard,” the Kallan said, and there was no mistaking the haughtiness in his voice. “Inconvenienced, no, but Lord Thispin is very concerned. He would like to have a word with you.”

“Very well.” Qui-Gon followed the palace official away, but they did not go into the great hall. In fact, they were heading downward, into the sub-levels of the palace. A tickle of the Force had Qui-Gon on alert. The guardians were behind and on either side of him, blocking retreat. They moved with such swiftness that there was no chance of ducking down a side passage. And the Jedi was aware that the electropikes the guardians carried were leveled at his back.

A door was opened for the official, and he led Qui-Gon through it, into a white-walled corridor with small doors set into it at intervals on one side. The Knight realized a moment too late that he had been arrested and taken to the prison, down below the main levels, down where he was at the mercy of his captors. There was still a chance, though. He reached out with the Force to locate the guardians and the positions of their electropikes, waiting for just the right moment. The palace official turned and was about to say something gloating when Qui-Gon flung an arm out and pinned one electropike beneath it, grabbing the shaft and swinging his body in a circle. The pike became a lever and knocked its owner to the floor. Qui-Gon spun the weapon into his hands and clashed with the other guardian, holding him at bay. He was about to make a break for the door when a stinging lash connected with the back of his legs and dropped him to the floor. The official had whipped his tail around and used it as his weapon. The guardian quickly leaped forward and jabbed the pike into Qui-Gon’s ribs, sending a painful and incapacitating jolt of electricity through him. The Jedi reeled, unable to fold his legs under him and stand. Other guardians raced into the chamber, alerted by the sound of struggle, and together they surrounded Qui-Gon, stripped him of his utility belt and lightsaber, and bundled him into one of the small cells.

Qui-Gon lay on the cold, white floor, panting. The jolt made him dizzy, but he waited to regain his senses rather than fight back. The door slammed shut, and a locking mechanism slid into place. _No matter_ , Qui-Gon thought to himself, _at my first chance I will just use the Force to open it._ In the meantime, he assessed his condition. The shock was only temporary, he was able to feel his legs again and his breathing returned to normal. All that remained was a tender spot on his chest. The loss of his belt and lightsaber was serious, but he figured he could escape the cell without them. It merely meant he would have to waste valuable escape time looking for his weapon once he got out. Qui-Gon pushed himself up, then, and sat with his back to the wall in a corner of the cell. Doubling up his knees, he rested his elbows on them and sighed, starting to feel rather foolish for getting himself captured. He expected better of himself. Glancing around the cramped dimensions of the cell, he rubbed at the stubble on his chin. _Well, Jinn_ , he mused, _you have a pretty puzzle here. You’ve been arrested for being out too late._ Chuckling to himself, Qui-Gon let his head fall back against the wall and decided to try and get some rest. There was no telling how long it might be before someone came for him.

It turned out Qui-Gon didn’t have long to wait. Shortly after being incarcerated, he heard movement outside and then the lock click. The door slid back and admitted two guardians, their electropikes held at the ready, and then three more Kallans: the official who had arrested him, a muscled, red reptile with glaring eyes, and Lord Thispin. Qui-Gon remained where he was, seated in the corner of the cell with his knees drawn up almost to his chest. The cell was too small for him to stand in, anyway. Thispin eyed him. “This is most unexpected, Jedi.”

“It is unexpected to me, as well,” Qui-Gon quietly said. “I was not aware I had trespassed any laws.”

The official hissed at him. “You deny meeting with members of the resistance faction and pledging them your aid?”

Qui-Gon lifted his eyes to the official’s face, remaining calm despite the outrage rising in him. “When I met them, I did not know they belonged to the resistance faction.” He shifted his gaze to Thispin, who stood behind the others as if afraid to step out and confront him. “If your lordship does not want me to uncover the leaders of the resistance, I will stay in the palace and not look for them.”

Thispin’s eyes glittered with malice. He didn’t like being made to look like a fool, certainly not by a human. “What did they tell you?”

The Jedi remained silent, his gray-eyed gaze steady.

“Did they tell you I am mad? It would be stupid indeed to trust their word, Qui-Gon. They would say anything to gain your sympathy.” Thispin edged in front of his third and as of yet anonymous companion. “I see they already have done so.”

“You don’t know what I am thinking,” Qui-Gon pointed out. “This is a grave misunderstanding, Lord Thispin…”

“Grave it is, but it is no misunderstanding.” Thispin backed away several steps. “Captain, he is yours. Find out what the dissidents told him, down to the last detail. I want names, locations, plans. Whatever he knows, I must have it.” He shot his captive a withering look and retreated safely out the door. The blue-skinned official nodded his agreement at the captain, and stepped out as well, closing the door behind him.

The captain took slow steps, pacing around Qui-Gon, lifting his legs uncommonly high. He was huge for a Kallan, with muscles rippling in his legs and bursting from his ceremonial uniform. His onyx eyes gleamed with unusual glee. “It would be in your best interest to cooperate, young Jedi,” he crooned, but in threat rather than comfort. “You could resist if you wished, but I feel it my responsibility to tell you that it will go much easier if you simply answered my questions to the best of your knowledge.”

Qui-Gon remained still and said nothing. Inwardly, his mind was racing. How did they know where he had been? If they knew he met with dissidents, why were they threatening him? Surely they already had more information than he could give. The captain took his silence for insolence. “Know you much about us, Jedi? We will get from you what we need, by any means possible. Mark me.”

“I know nothing,” Qui-Gon told him, his voice soft and innocent.

The captain decided that threats were not going to be of much use against this particular prisoner, and so immediately took his interrogation to the next step. Quick as a flash he darted forward and back-handed Qui-Gon, his sinewy hand as hard as stone. Qui-Gon’s head snapped viciously to one side with the force. “To whom did you speak?” the head guardian demanded. “Give me their names.”

His face stinging, Qui-Gon lifted his eyes to meet the captain’s glare. “If you don’t already have them,” he breathed, “you will not get them from me.”

The captain puffed himself up and hissed angrily. “You will tell me! This is but a taste of what I will do if you resist.” He grabbed the electropike from one of his men and leveled it, tweaking at a switch before jabbing it into Qui-Gon’s ribs. Pain shot through the young Jedi’s body for an instant, and then the pike withdrew. Delighting in making his captive writhe, the captain shocked him again and again, just long enough to force a cry of pain from Qui-Gon before teasingly pulling it back, allowing only a breath’s respite before the next shock. Qui-Gon endured it for as long as he could, his natural sense of defiance working itself to a fever pitch before exploding. He was already on his hands and knees, the perfect stance from which to spring. He pushed himself off the floor before the captain could jab at him again and launched himself at the Kallan’s midsection, tackling him and sending them both thudding to the floor. The impact knocked the pike from the captain’s hand, and his legs thrashed uselessly at the draping folds of the Jedi robe. Qui-Gon was a large man, and even after several shocks, he was more than a match for the powerful captain, an even foe in terms of weight and size. The other two guardians moved in, though the one was unable to bring his pike to bear without missing and possibly hitting his captain instead, since the cell was too small to spin the weapon around in time. But the other guardian leaped down and grabbed Qui-Gon, wrenching him off his captain. Qui-Gon reversed his arm and wrestled his way out of the guardian’s grip, giving him a smack that knocked him sprawling. The captain regained his footing and barreled into the captive Jedi, throwing him into the far wall of the cell. Their arms tangled, fists flying, but the captain managed to duck the punches and then sank his teeth into the Jedi’s right shoulder.

The small but razor-sharp teeth of the Kallan sliced right through robe and tunics and bit deep, hooking in and refusing to budge even though Qui-Gon yelled and thrashed and tried to throw off his attacker. After a minute or two of clinging, the captain released his hold and darted back out of the way, gasping for breath and hissing in indignation, blood painting his jaw. Qui-Gon struggled to get up and resume the fight, but one of the guardians spun in a tight circle and thwacked his tail flat into the Jedi’s stomach. Qui-Gon fell into the wall and stayed there, wincing at the searing pain in his shoulder and shuddering in search of the wind that had been knocked out of him. The captain snapped some orders at his men and all three ducked out of the cell.

_Calm_ , Qui-Gon told himself. _Peace. Calm. Center._ He still gasped and shuddered, but his breath came back to him and he was able to quiet himself. He only snatched at the Force, applying it like dabs of bacta to his rattled composure and shocked body. When he was able to settle himself sufficiently, he propped himself up against the wall and peeled away the layers of his clothing. The sturdy fabric of the robe was punctured with neat holes, but the two layered tunics beneath it were shredded, and his shoulder was lacerated with deep wounds that bled freely. Qui-Gon yanked the narrow tabard-cloth out from under the sash binding it to his body and folded it, pressing it against the teeth-marks even though the pain made him suck in his breath sharply. He had been trained to accept pain, and through the Force turn the alarm signals into healing, but at the moment he was too shaken to go through the motions, too incensed at the brutal treatment and too angry with himself for daring to fight back. He quickly recognized these thoughts as leading to the Dark Side, and closed his eyes to center himself. He breathed slowly, evenly, ignoring the icy-hot needles of pain in his shoulder in order to regain his calm. In time, he was satisfied with the improvement, and carefully maneuvered himself so he could lie on the floor on his left side. The cramped cell was barely wide enough to accommodate his height, but he managed, and after folding his robe beneath his head for a pillow, he drifted into a restless slumber.

For hours Qui-Gon dozed on and off, unable to rest for the burning sensations in his shoulder and the artificial lighting which remained powered-on all night. There were no windows in the cell, which he judged to be about seven feet wide, so he had no idea what time it was or if night had passed and day arrived. His stomach, about the only untamable part of him, growled restlessly when it judged it to be breakfast-time, but no one came. It didn’t bother him, he had gone for days without food in extreme survival situations before. But something else did bother him, something he noticed not long after lying down. There had been no change to the ambient temperature of the cell, but he began sweating profusely. In between spurts of sleep he lay there mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic, wishing at least for water. When his stomach made its perfectly natural and expected complaint, he decided that even if someone were to bring him food, he didn’t feel like eating. The severe bite had stopped bleeding, but the wounds burned and itched. In short, Qui-Gon felt sick, and was content to sprawl motionless on the floor, hoping both that someone would come to help him and that he would be left alone.

When the door thudded open, Qui-Gon only opened his eyes, lacking the energy to lift his head. The splayed, three-toed Kallan feet before him were red, as he expected. “I see you are already feeling the effects of the captain’s bite,” a voice high above him muttered. 

Qui-Gon struggled to roll himself over, looking up at the subordinate guardian clutching his electropike in front of him just in case. “The effect?” he breathed. “What do you mean?”

“The bite of a Kallan is venomous. Or, did you not know that?” The slender reptile cocked his head curiously. “I doubt it will kill you, but it will bring you much suffering for several days,” he said matter-of-factly. “Perhaps this is why the captain asked me to come and see if you were ready to answer his questions.”

Sighing deeply, Qui-Gon steadied his hands beneath him and forced himself into a sitting position, even though it made his head swim and a wave of nausea pass over him. “Tell your captain,” he panted, “I have nothing to say to him. I know nothing.”

The guardian snorted and turned to go, his tail gliding gracefully behind him. “As you wish, Jedi. But the longer you delay, the harder it will be for you. Offers of mercy are short-lived around here.”

Qui-Gon doubted the offer being handed to him was merciful in any sense of the word, but at the moment his own fate came secondary to the Kallans he had chosen to defend. Regardless of who was right or wrong in the power struggle on Kallus, it was against a Jedi’s code of honor to deliver innocent people up to authorities who planned to mistreat them. Any doubt Qui-Gon had for his choice of action had been banished at the captain’s first blow. No one deserved to be beaten for this, but if anyone would take it, it would be the Jedi Knight. He wrapped his long arms around his midsection and braced himself against the wall, fighting off the tremors in his limbs, as he thought about what to do. Beads of sweat ran down his face, and his shoulder burned from the inside out. He knew he was sick, the guardian merely confirmed it. He steeled himself to fight off the poison, by sheer force of will if he had to, deciding that his life was less important than the dissidents he had been linked to. He would keep their secrets. Though, he only knew their names and reasons for standing against Thispin. The Lord wanted plans and locations, activities, but Qui-Gon didn’t know any. _Fine_ , he resolved. _If I die over a few names, so be it. I will have done my duty._

For most of the day—for day it was—Qui-Gon was left to suffer alone, no one came to feed him or even question him, much less treat his illness. He shook with chills and burned with fever at the same time. His vision swam, he retched, and his stomach felt like it was tied into knots. He crouched in a corner of the cell, wrapped into a ball with his long legs tucked underneath him, his eyes closed against the lights which were giving him the worst headache of his life. He had long since given up seeking a means of escape, for there were no outlets save the locked door, and the ventilation shaft was no larger than the width of his hand and covered with an integrated chain-metal screen which he couldn’t even get a grip on. The illness made it hard for him to think about reaching out with the Force, but he suspected that his cell was well-guarded, and in this condition he knew he could not take on even one guardian and hope to beat him. He had run through every possible scenario in his mind and concluded that his only hope was to wait out the imprisonment, when someone came to see him.

A slender green head poked in through the door, but she was prodded suddenly from behind and leaped into the cell. Qui-Gon squinted in the brilliant light and recognized the palace servant who had shown him his room the day before. She carried a tray before her, which she set on the floor near him before scampering nervously out. The captain of the guardians slid past her and stood over him, gloating. “Good day, Jedi,” he greeted with a slick smile. “Time for a meal, yes?”

Qui-Gon swallowed hard and found his voice. “I don’t need anything,” he rasped.

The sharp teeth gleamed as the captain bared them in a grin. “You mean, you don’t want anything,” he said smartly. “Afraid, are you? You don’t trust your stomach, maybe?” He stepped even closer, his foot-claws clicking on the hard, white floor. “I have heard what Kallan venom does to human physiology, but I have never had the chance to witness it myself. I must thank you for the chance.”

The Jedi drew in a deep breath, fighting his anger at the futile taunting. “What do you want?”

The captain leaned down and bared his teeth again. “You know what I want.”

“I don’t know anything,” Qui-Gon insisted. “You think a group of dissidents would trust a stranger and an off-worlder with information on their plans?”

The Kallan’s hand shot forward and clamped on Qui-Gon’s forehead, smashing his head back into the wall and holding him in place with long, cold, strong fingers. “They would trust a Jedi Knight,” he retorted, growling.

Qui-Gon winced at the new ache growing in the back of his head, but kept his calm with effort. “I tell you,” he whispered to the reptilian face hovering before his, “I know nothing.”

The hand slammed his head into the wall again, and then grabbed his short hair and yanked him forward. Qui-Gon bit down a cry, struggling to his knees to alleviate the strain while clutching at the vicious claws holding him up. The captain swung his tail around and lashed at the Jedi’s hands, arms, and side, whipping him until he let go and hung limply from the Kallan’s grasp. “Do not defy me,” the captain snarled. “You are mine, human, and I will do what I must to get what I need.”

Qui-Gon had nothing to say to that, so the captain smacked him across the face and tossed him to the floor. “You have given up your chance,” he growled, stepping away from the body sprawled at his feet. “Now, I will listen to nothing you might have to say, not until I hear you crying for mercy and begging like a starved nestling.” He stalked out of the cell, and for a moment Qui-Gon could hear him ordering his troops just outside the door. “No one is to go in there without my direct supervision. Two on hand at all times.”

“Yes, my lord,” a guardian briskly acknowledged. “What of regular…?”

“There is no regular. Not for him. He gets nothing.”

Silence.

“And I will warn you again. This human is a Jedi. They have powers. Be on your guard and do not listen if he talks to you. I am the only one who sees to his interrogation.”

More acknowledgements, and then the door closed and locked. Qui-Gon lay prone for a while, feeling new sources of pain all over his body, before propping himself up on his elbows and looking at what the servant had brought him. It was meager fare even for a Kallan diet—two pieces of fruit, a bowl of water, and some flowers with thick, juicy stems. Kallans were omnivorous, but Qui-Gon was glad their choice of protein—insects and small birds—had not been brought for him. Under most circumstances he wouldn’t have minded, but with his stomach curling itself in knots, the mere sight of insects would have made him heave. He plucked idly at the flowers, unsure whether they were edible or for show, but in the end left all the food untouched and merely drank to ease his ravaged throat.

The fever was only beginning to reach its serious stage, and over the next few hours Qui-Gon found himself losing consciousness for short periods of time. In his moments of lucidity he tried to assess his condition and drink a little more water, though he rationed himself, unsure when someone might bring him more. He guessed that he could survive the venom’s effects, regardless of how much he suffered, if his captors’ intent was to leave him locked up and starved for a few days until he either talked or they let him go. But he found out soon enough, that they had other plans for him.

***

In the stifling darkness, the Jedi Master became aware that his captors had returned, as the corner of his mind always left alert woke him from his healing trance. He slowly opened his eyes and blinked, though the room was as dark as a cave and he could see nothing. It just felt good to have his eyes open, even though they watered and one pinched with pain. The voices were just outside the door.

“Are you stupid? He’s a Jedi!”

“So? A fat lot of good his Jedi tricks have done him here, he can’t get out.”

“I still say you’re going about this all wrong. It’s been five days—five whole days! Has he said a word? No! You’re lucky you can even get him to do anything but give you that creepy blank stare.”

A smile curved Master Qui-Gon’s cracked lips, hearing that.

“What do you want to do with him, then?”

“Throw him off the ship. He’s nothing but baggage to us now, and more of a liability than he’s worth. Not all Jedi travel alone. Someone’s going to be looking for him.”

A twinge of alarm awakened in Qui-Gon’s heart. _Obi-Wan_. He tried to gather the Force to reach his Padawan, but it refused to travel very far from his senses. Obi-Wan was out of his range at the moment, unable to respond because his Master’s plea was too weak to reach him.

“I still think he knows something. We should at least keep him until we get to the next station. Maybe someone there would like a Jedi toy to play with, for the right price.”

“Are you sure you weren’t born a Hutt? You’re as cruel as they.”

Sick laughter. “Thanks for the compliment.”

The Force recoiled and entwined itself in Qui-Gon’s limbs and fingers, in the fibers of his muscles, in his soul. He couldn’t seek out with it, but he could still rest in it, comfort himself with it, and fill himself with enough power to build up what his captors had broken down. The Force would save him, somehow. The flippant conversation outside his door reminded him of another, a very similar one, he had the bad fortune to overhear a long time ago.

***

“So that’s a human. I’ve never seen one.”

“Really?” One guardian turned his sleek head and boggled at the other guardian beside him. “You should travel more. Ask to patrol the spaceport, once, you will see more.”

“I don’t want to see more. He looks clumsy, thick. He is hairy.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Is he dying?”

“No,” the knowledgeable guardian sighed. They were peeking into the cell, taking a risk because their captain was not around and Qui-Gon was lying on his back on the floor, breathing shallowly. They didn’t know if he was awake or not, but their curiosity was greater than their caution. “Our venom is not strong enough. Not unless the captain comes back, and gives him more. Which he might.”

“I should like to see that. I wonder what it would do to him? Convulsions, maybe? Ooh, or paralysis.”

“He is a strong one. I think it would take a lot to do that.” The guardian flicked his companion a look. “They say he is a Jedi. But I have not seen him do any Jedi tricks.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” The younger guardian cocked his head, peering in interest at the young man lying spread-eagle across the middle of the cell, having drained the bowl of water dry at last after a day of attempted rationing. “What will the captain do with him?”

“He said next time he would bring extra hands,” the other speculated. “They will beat him, surely. What else could they do to him?”

“They could close off the ventilation. Chill his cell.”

The guardian snorted. “It would not bother him! Humans are warm-blooded. He would not be affected like we are. No, the captain said we must use more direct methods.”

“Well,” the young one offered, “we could take that garment from him. He would feel the chill then. Right?”

There was a short silence, and then Qui-Gon heard the scrabbling of claws on the floor. He cracked an eye open in time to see a guardian reaching over him for the robe lying in a heap on his other side. He tried to sit up and stop the theft of his robe, but dizziness overcame him and he groaned, bracing his hands on the floor. The young guardian darted back, hissing, but saw that the prisoner wasn’t going to move fast enough and snatched up the robe, dancing back out of the cell before Qui-Gon could even roll himself over. He wasn’t concerned about the idea of dropping the temperature in his cell, but the fever was worsening and the robe was all he had to warm his chills. A mild twitch of despair passed over him before he reminded himself that he had been through worse—and now, as a Jedi Knight, he ought to be able to handle such little things with ease. Wasn’t the Force supposed to be with him?

No sooner had the door closed when it opened again, this time admitting several guardians in the company of their captain. In defiance Qui-Gon pulled himself off the floor and mustered his last shreds of dignity, sitting against the wall with his long legs crossed, lifting groggy eyes to his jailers. The light stubble on his chin had grown thicker, his eyes were rimmed with shadows, but he was still a Jedi Knight and could still show his enemies a calm, collected expression. The captain peered down at him, but this time asked no questions. Instead, he launched immediately into his assault, directing two guardians to hold the young man’s arms behind his back while he beat him mercilessly, not stopping until Qui-Gon’s face was bloody and bruised and his body was bent weakly over. Still, he knelt before the captain, gasping and coughing on the blood trickling back down his throat, his gray-blue eyes sparkling with defiance. The captain paced a little, clenching his long-fingered hand into a fist, and then struck with it, square in the Jedi’s face. Qui-Gon let out a shout as the bone crunched beneath the blow. Satisfied that he had finally weakened his captive’s resistance, the Kallan captain snapped a few more orders out. Sinewy hands tightened on Qui-Gon’s arms and yanked him backwards, while a knee pressed into his back, forcing him to arch back, exposing his chest. Still more claws rent the tatters of his tunics, and one clammy hand slapped on his forehead, drawing his head back, leaving his throat exposed. The captain clacked his jaws in hungry anticipation, and when his prey had been prepared, he nosed in close and hissed into Qui-Gon’s ear, “I have tasted your blood, young Jedi. No Kallan forgets that he came from a race of predators, and no Kallan who has tasted the blood of another creature can stop himself from taking another.” 

A long, flexible tongue darted out from between the captain’s teeth and teased at Qui-Gon’s cheek, taking a taste of the blood spattered there from his nose and lips. Qui-Gon couldn’t help but shiver, finding himself suddenly disgusted at what he had been lectured to accept as standard behavior of an alien species. The hands holding him pulled his limbs and head backwards again, as if a good yank would regain his attention. He gave a strangled cry of protest, but it was too late. The captain bit at his shoulder again, in the same place as before, and then lapped at the blood that flowed. The tongue slapped at both old and fresh wounds, delivering a dose of venom with each drop of saliva. Qui-Gon strained against the hands holding him, wishing for one of those bouts of unconsciousness to save him from having to witness his own torture. At last the captain withdrew, pleased with himself and obviously having a hard time restraining himself from slashing his captive’s throat and killing him on the spot. He stalked around the cell in primitive glee, savoring the taste of the Jedi’s blood. The guardians let Qui-Gon go, and he collapsed to the floor, panting raggedly. Everything hurt, especially his shoulder and nose, and he was having trouble breathing. His heart raced. His eyes clouded, both with tears and poison.

“We will be back,” the captain vowed. “And soon.” He soared out of the cell with a snicker, and at least two of his men couldn’t resist a slap or a thwack with his tail on the way out.

Bruised, broken, and ailing, Qui-Gon crouched in a ball, only his knees, elbows, and forehead touching the cold floor of his cell as he gasped and gagged, one hand wiping desperately at his shoulder in case any of the venom was still there, seeping into his wounds. It was working quickly, since he was weakened and there was already enough poison in his system. His body shook, and tingling pains wracked his hands and neck. For the first time in his life, Qui-Gon begged the universe to let him die, though he knew that his Kallan adversaries wanted him to live and suffer instead. He just wanted to let go, to sink into the Force and cease to exist. 

The Force. He reached tentatively out for it, hoping it would enfold him and let him quietly slip away, out of the pain and into nothingness. But he didn’t slip away. Instead, the Force surged in him like a fire kindling, and his head cleared. For the infinite fleetness of a moment Qui-Gon remembered who he was, what he had to do, and how to do it. Master Yoda’s voice hummed in his subconscious: “A Jedi’s ally is the Force. Strong it is. Able to do what he alone cannot.”

Taking a deep breath, Qui-Gon plunged his conscious mind into the Force and felt it ripple around him, soft like flower petals, strong like the tides of an ocean. He flung himself headlong into the power, stretching his body full out on the floor face-down and abandoning himself to pain. If he hurt, so what? If he was sick, so what? There was the Force. The Force was with him, in him. Either it would take the pain away or it would make him strong enough to endure it, and either way, he won. He knew he had no strength to resist the venom, and no ability to make himself heal and grow stronger. But the Force might. Qui-Gon breathed deeply, ignoring how rasping and choked each breath was, and managed to sink into the meditative state he usually entered into voluntarily at the start or close of each day. He hadn’t given himself up to meditation for several days now, but the Force knew better than he what to do. It wrapped around his mind and closed off outside stimuli, including the pain seething throughout his body. It gave him the chance to objectively assess his injuries and accept them. It quieted his mind and allowed him to rest, and accordingly he passed imperceptibly from meditation to slumber, while the Force blanketed him and remained within his reach, if he would only quiet his restless mind long enough to reach for it.

The sound of the cell door woke him at last, but when he tried to pry himself up off the floor, his arms refused to respond. Sighing in agony, Qui-Gon kept his eyes closed and tried to touch the Force again, hoping it would be there. It was, and the realization humbled him. Had he so quickly forgotten what he had spent years learning? The Force would always guide him, and he did not need to question it. Pulling it to him, Qui-Gon mentally stretched fingers along his stiff arms and down into his hands, and after a moment of waiting, he could move them again—slowly. He slid one hand closer to him and pushed, and was able to raise his upper body off the floor. Cold reptilian hands touched him, then, and his eyes flew open in shock. But it wasn’t an assailant. It was the little green servant, cradling her spindly arms around him and resting his head on her lap. Qui-Gon submitted, and sharp pains needled his back and neck as the Force’s protection receded from him, making him shout. “Hush!” the Kallan cautioned. “Do you want them to hear? Here,” she quickly whispered, “I brought you more water, and more food, though I see you touched not the rest. What did they do?”

“Much,” Qui-Gon moaned, his voice nothing but a harsh whisper. “Thank you.”

Her long, slender fingers passed lightly over the swelled bridge of his nose, which was broken, but there was nothing the servant could do for it. She picked up the bowl and held it to Qui-Gon’s lips, dribbling just a little at a time down his throat. He choked at first, but desperately needed water and eventually drained the bowl completely. The servant stroked at his unshaven cheeks with her fingertips, dabbing them in the water and cleaning some of the blood away. When the water was gone, the Jedi lifted his eyes to his savior and whispered again, “Thank you.”

She nodded. “I must go. They will come.”

“Go, then. I will be fine.” Qui-Gon reached out with his senses and touched the Force again, and it sparkled in his mind. _Yes, I should be fine_ , he thought. The servant leaped noiselessly to her feet and padded out, looking both ways before closing the cell door and disappearing. Qui-Gon had no idea how she had gotten past the guards, nor why she risked herself helping him, but it didn’t matter. He had a new goal in mind, an intent to try and help himself.

Young Qui-Gon was on his knees in deep meditation when they came for him again, this time with electropikes. The venom had weakened him considerably, so much so that he didn’t even try to fight back or struggle when they held him down and shocked him repeatedly, on the tender skin of his wrists, the inside of his arms and legs, and his neck, until he passed out. When he regained consciousness again he was alone, his body still trembling and his muscles tight with pain. Red welts covered his torso where the pikes had touched his skin. He was sure they thought they were finally getting somewhere with him, having him helpless as a baby, sick and weak, unable to fight back or even look defiant anymore. But Qui-Gon felt like he had turned a corner in his training, his life. He was starting to go beyond being merely told that the Force was his ally to really knowing it, having it there at hand in his worst moment of fear and anger. “A true ally is proven in weakness, when the alliance is all you have left to stand on,” his Master had taught. Now, he felt he was finally learning it, though the learning process was slow. Taking a few deep breaths, he felt himself strong enough to sit up, and from there, he sent his senses out in search for the Force, and when he found it, he built it up like a fortress around his mind and soul, protecting all that he was and ever would be no matter what they did to his body.

For hours uncounted Qui-Gon fell into a loose rhythm of sleeping and meditating, though it was continually broken by one intrusion or another. The servant came to him on occasion, and he started to guess that it was very late at night, the guardians outside the cell possibly sleeping or distracted. She always brought water, always sat with his head resting on her knee while she helped him, stroking his forehead comfortingly. She said nothing, though her liquid eyes looked down on him in sympathy. Other times, it was the captain or one of his guardians who came, and they were not so kind. But they came less often, fortunately, leaving their prisoner to the throes of his illness. Qui-Gon knew he wasn’t getting better, he needed more water than he was getting and perhaps medical attention, but he wasn’t getting worse either. Between moments of studious meditation, he kept the Force near to his senses but focused on using his mind instead, thinking through his options and trying to calculate how long he had been imprisoned. The next time the servant skittered into the cell with her usual aid held carefully between her hands, he asked her, “How many days have I been here?”

“In a few hours, it will be dawn,” she answered, whispering, “and it will be six days since you landed on Kallas.” She tugged at the shredded ribbons of his tunic, arranging them over his shoulder to protect the welted, swollen puncture wounds, while he sipped at the water a few drops at a time. “I am sorry for what Lord Thispin has ordered done to you. You do not deserve it.”

“I will take it, though,” Qui-Gon said softly, “if it means protecting the names of your people who stand against Thispin.”

The servant sighed lightly. “So that is why. You are noble, Jedi, and brave.”

“No more or less so than the Kallans who risk their lives to speak out against injustice,” Qui-Gon countered, feeling neither noble nor brave at the moment.

She brushed wisps of his chestnut hair from his brow. “Does anyone know where you are? Will someone come for you? Some Jedi, perhaps?”

Qui-Gon heaved a painful sigh. “Unless someone can contact the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, and tell them what’s become of me…” He closed his eyes, wincing. “I travel alone, and this mission is expected to take time. They won’t be suspicious for many more days yet. I am alone.”

“It is not good to be alone.” The servant darted a quick look at the door, which was open a crack to listen for threat, and then took away the empty bowl. “I will be back when I can, but I fear the captain may be catching on. It may be some time.”

“Don’t get caught for me,” Qui-Gon pleaded, raising himself on one elbow to watch her go. “If you can’t get back, don’t worry. I will be fine.”

The green Kallan gazed sadly at him. “No, you will not.” But it was time for her to go, so she ducked out and closed the door behind her.

Qui-Gon pushed himself up off the floor, bracing his hands against the wall in order to struggle to his feet. He was four inches taller than the height of the cell, and so had to duck, but he needed to stand and stretch his legs, feel his body work again. He still had a fever, though it had subsided considerably, and his shoulder tingled with pain. Feeling the bridge of his nose, he guessed that the break had set, though it was still swollen and tender. For a while he slowly paced the confines of his cell, stooped over and groping with his hands and left shoulder against the wall to guide him and keep him from falling. At first movement was painful, but he reached for the Force to clear his head and steeled himself to keep doing it until his stiff muscles regained their flexibility. One step at a time, he circumnavigated his cell first clockwise, then counterclockwise, getting stronger with each circuit. Just as he was thinking he ought to sit down before he cycled the venom remaining in his body through his bloodstream again, the door screamed open and a guardian demanded, “What are you doing?”

Standing with his back against the wall, breathing hard, Qui-Gon answered, “Standing.”

The guardian panicked and thrust forward with his electropike, shocking the Jedi to his knees and leaping back out of his way. Qui-Gon steadied himself with one hand on the floor, the other curled protectively to his chest, but made no move to attack or defend himself. The guardian struck at the exposed back of his neck with the shaft of his pike, knocking him senseless and flat on the floor. The Kallan darted out the door, calling for reinforcements, while Qui-Gon lay dazed, unable to reach for the precious Force to prevent further pain.

***

A decrease in heat and pressure told Qui-Gon the engines were cutting out, likely dropping out of light speed as the ship came out of hyperspace. Blinking in the darkness, the Jedi Master stretched his senses outward, using the Force to give him sight and hearing beyond the limits of his physical boundaries. He heard the stirring of someone standing guard outside the door of the closet where he was being held, felt the pulse of the sub-light engines kicking in as the ship’s velocity changed, and then heard from afar the heavy trod of his captors coming back to the hold. He let go of his senses and detached himself, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath as his mind sank into a deep trance. They would not get from him what they wanted. 

When they had gone, the Jedi Master found himself lying on the floor, renewed sensations of pain testifying to what they had done to him. The repetition of this treatment was becoming annoying, but also dangerous. He could not endure the frustrating cycle of pain and Force-healing much longer. In his condition, it was hard for Qui-Gon to avoid the dreams born of memory that came to him, and the reminder of his failures, for the past resembled the present in too many ways.

***

The kind servant did not come back for a long time, and Qui-Gon felt himself weakening without the sustenance she had been bringing him. He needed much more than she could provide, but the little water she had managed to give him kept him from dying of dehydration. What it couldn’t do was cleanse his body of the toxin, it was still in him, collecting in his cells and prolonging the agony. He needed more water to cleanse the venom from his bloodstream for good. But the servant didn’t come. No one came. He was truly alone, cold, so fatigued that he couldn’t sleep. If he worked his way to his feet again, he made sure he was sitting again whenever a guardian threatened to poke his head in. But even they stayed away, and Qui-Gon started to wonder.

The young Jedi found it most comfortable to sit with his back against a corner of his cell, his feet on the floor and knees drawn up to his chest, whether he was submerged in the Force or merely thinking. He was sitting exactly that way when the door opened and the green-skinned servant was thrown onto the floor from outside, keening fearfully and cowering under her long arms. The captain stepped in behind her, glaring down at Qui-Gon. One clawed foot came down on the servant’s tail to stop its panicked lashing. “So,” the captain snarled. “You made a friend.”

Qui-Gon braced his hands on the walls and pushed himself as far forward as he dared. “What are you doing?”

“Preventing you from escaping.” The hulking Kallan turned and barked orders at the guardians hanging around just outside. They dashed in and surrounded Qui-Gon, grabbing him even as he tried to get up, bending his hands behind his back and forcing him back down to his knees. One snaked a thin arm around Qui-Gon’s throat and held him in a headlock, twisting his head so that he could see what was happening. The captain shocked the servant with a pike, making her leap up and curl into the far corner of the cell to get away from him. “What have you done?” he scolded her. “Lord Thispin is most outraged at your behavior! Helping his enemy, giving treatment to a prisoner who was supposed to get none. What are you? Are you a Kallan or a human?”

The servant had no answers for him, she only whimpered and keened with every shuddered breath, her long, supple limbs bent into a frightened ball. Qui-Gon strained against his captors, gasping for breath, his anger white-hot. “Leave her alone, she’s innocent!” he seethed. The captain glanced at him with a toothy grin, and used the pike to strike her across the head. “Stop!” Qui-Gon begged. “Don’t do this!”

“Tell me what you know, then,” the captain offered, striking the servant again. “Tell me, or I will kill her.”

“No!” the little Kallan burst out. “Don’t listen to him Qui-Gon!”

Enraged, the captain leveled the pike and shocked her with a prolonged jolt that made her slump senseless against the wall. Qui-Gon struggled, trying to wrestle his head free, but the guardians just grasped him harder. “Leave her alone!” he shouted at the captain.

“Why should I? She has broken the law. She must be punished. Surely even Jedi agree that punishment must be dealt to lawbreakers?”

Qui-Gon felt his anger rising, waiting to empower him, but he quickly realized that this was exactly what the guardians wanted of him. His anger was his defeat, not his strength, so he let it go and filled the turmoil of his heart with the Force instead, repeating words of calm and peace to himself until his emotions backed down and he could think rationally again. He still struggled, trying to get free to protect his savior, but the more the Force filled him, the more he realized it was futile. The captain was still kicking and smacking the servant around, making her yelp and cry. Qui-Gon reached out with the Force, sensing the servant’s emotions. She was scared, her fear potent and strong, but deep down she was also still defiant. “Please, stop this,” the Jedi pleaded, calming himself so he wouldn’t shout again. “She is innocent. It’s me you want. Let her be.”

The captain swung around to him. “Then tell me what you know of the dissident movement. I will spare her only if you say.”

Qui-Gon faltered. “I…”

“No,” the servant whimpered. “Qui-Gon don’t say. Don’t say! I would rather die!”

Qui-Gon’s heart stabbed him with an emotional pain. He could sense that she was speaking the truth, and wanted him to continue to hold his secrets at all costs, but it hurt to see her cowering before the captain while he struck her. The captain hissed angrily at the exchange between them and launched into his attack, tearing savagely at the little Kallan while Qui-Gon watched, unable to help, unable to do anything except pant for breath and watch, tears starting into his gray eyes. For a long time the beating continued, no one interrupting with idle talk or pleas, until the servant lay limp on the floor, her breathing shallow and blood trickling from her wounds. Her life force was fading in Qui-Gon’s senses, and he had to stop it before she died. “Stop!” he demanded. “I will tell you what you want to know!”

The captain did stop, and turned to him. The guardians dropped their hold on the Jedi’s neck and backed away as their superior advanced on Qui-Gon. “Then say. I am waiting.”

A tiny mewl came from the servant. Qui-Gon shot her a worried look, feeling her pain and horror. “Get her some help, first,” he pleaded, focusing his gray eyes on the captain. “She will die.”

“No bargains from you,” the captain snapped. “You are not in charge.”

The Force came rushing to Qui-Gon when he called for it, and knocked the guardians away from him. Freed, he lunged for his friend and threw himself over her, protecting her with his body. The nearest electropike came down hard on his head, but he remained steadfast, hunched over the servant. He had only a few seconds before the guardians lurched across the cell and retook him, so he bent down and picked up the slender green head between his large hands, looking into the gem-like eyes. She shuddered and whispered, “Don’t say. Please.”

“But you—“

“Don’t say,” she murmured again, as vehemently as she could. “For their sake.” 

The guardians grabbed Qui-Gon, then, pulling him away from her. He had no strength to resist them, and let them drag him back across the cell where they threw him into the wall and held him down. The captain towered over him. “Well? What do you say?”

_There is no death, there is the Force_. Qui-Gon took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I have nothing to say,” he whispered hoarsely.

The captain hissed, and then picked up the electropike again and used it to prod the servant at the back of her long neck. She quivered, stiffened, and then went limp. Qui-Gon sensed her life slip away.

“Well?” The big Kallan turned back to his captive, bristling with rage. “You have killed your friend, and your only hope to ever get away. And still you say nothing. I would kill you,” he growled, “but I would rather you live with the knowledge of what you have done to this innocent.” He kicked the body with his clawed foot.

It took all of Qui-Gon’s connection to the Force to keep from losing his barely-held composure as he stared at the servant’s body, his jaw slack and senses reeling. Distracted, he didn’t see the captain’s hand until it smacked across his face, pushing his head back into the wall. Looking up, he saw the captain’s bloodless lips draw back, and then he spat right into Qui-Gon’s eyes. The venom reacted immediately, and he collapsed on the ground writhing in agony. “Let that be a lesson to you!” the Kallan captain screeched on his way out.

Nearly screaming, Qui-Gon fought to keep from rubbing his eyes. The venomous Kallan saliva burned, but he didn’t dare rub it in further. There was no water, nothing to help him but his tears for the Kallan who had died for his sake. He sprawled on the floor of the cell and wept, and soon he forgot all about the matter of cleansing his eyes of the venom. It was his fault, he had killed her. He could have spoken up and saved her life, but she didn’t let him. He had never been placed in this situation before, none of his experiences as a galaxy-travelling Padawan had prepared him for this. _If I get out of this_ , he vowed to himself, _and ever take a Padawan of my own, I won’t let him get out of my care until he’s learned what I haven’t._ If _I get out._

The moment of grief passed in its own time, and Qui-Gon surrounded himself with the Force to help speed its passing. The guardians had at least done him the kindness of taking the body away, but now he knew he was alone and without hope. Still, it was preferable to him that he might die rather than be set free for giving in. The Force was with him, and theoretically it should be all he needed. As he lay on the floor sniffling, cautiously dabbing at his eyes to make sure all the poison had been washed away, Qui-Gon reflected on his life, his training, and his failure of the moment. He had been taught many high and lofty things in the Jedi Temple, and as he got out and began to apply his knowledge as an apprentice, some of those things had failed him. Now, as a Jedi Knight who was probably going to have a very short career, he realized how little he had really understood. 

He closed his eyes and meditated on his doubts, examining them rather than squashing them, turning them over and coming to realize that he simply hadn’t taken his Master’s lessons to heart. He could say he understood, and spout out the wisest of answers when asked the most probing of questions, but here, now, in this moment, he knew that understanding was harder to achieve than answers were. He knew the Force before, but now he understood it, felt it respond, anticipate, live. The breakthrough that burst down the walls of doubt in Qui-Gon’s mind filled him with a new desire, one that trampled his grief and pain and restored him to the most calm and centered place he had ever been in his life. The living Force enveloped him and embraced him, teaching him in its own way what it meant to be mindful of the moment and listen to the Force. Moment after moment passed, while the past and future melted away into insignificance. His health and life no longer mattered to him, for the Force would be there whether he lived or died, and as a Jedi, that was all he ever truly wanted. As long as no one came and stopped him, young Qui-Gon decided to sit in the corner of his cell and let the Force dance around him, no longer caring about whether he would be attacked, attended to, or rescued. The moment was all that mattered to him anymore.

It was a couple of days before something finally happened. Qui-Gon sat in his spot, eyes closed, too weak to lift his head from where it rested against the wall. He had given up even trying to stand and walk around the cell, for the illness had robbed him of the strength to move. Death lurked nearby, but he neither anticipated nor fought it, prepared to accept it if it came and took him or accept life if it didn’t. Since the servant’s death no one had come to his cell, though he had heard occasional scrabbling outside the door as the guard shift changed. He counted the changes in shift and by it knew something of the passage of time. Then, one time, there was a bigger commotion outside. Qui-Gon listened, realizing that it was not only not time for a shift change, but it sounded much different. The fast footfalls of the Kallan guardians, then hissing and high-pitched shouting. Curious, the young Jedi raised his head and opened his eyes, watching the door to see if it would open. Immediately outside it he heard a thud, and the sharp voice of one of the guardians who had often been on guard followed by struggling, then a slap and another heavy thud. The next thing he knew, the door was opening, and a green Kallan head poked in.

Qui-Gon would have started up and braced himself if he had the strength. The Kallan let out a cry of dismay and disappeared, only to reappear a moment later with a companion and heave the door fully open. One carried a pike, the other was armed with primitive hunting weapons, a knife and a crossbow. The first one set his pike aside and crouched down in front of Qui-Gon, touching his face with long fingers. “Are you alive? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” Qui-Gon rasped, his head lolling forward to see who this strange creature was. The Kallan gazed at him with soft eyes, waiting. The Jedi wondered, “Who are you?”

“We are here to save you. Olla asked us to look out for you, he hoped you were not dead yet.” Both Kallans conspired to haul Qui-Gon to his feet, draping his arms over their slim shoulders and bearing his weight out of the cell. Qui-Gon helped them by placing one foot in front of the other, but his steps were uneven and erratic. Outside his cell, he looked up and down the corridor, thankful to see something else besides the four white walls for once. Stunned guardians lay on the floor, and all the cell doors were open to permit prisoners to run free. Most of them had picked up guardians’ pikes and joined their liberators, the rest had already escaped. As they moved along the corridor and up into the ground level of the palace, more commotion could be heard from all directions. The Kallans guided him to the great hall where he had first met the Lord of Kallus, only now, instead of Thispin awaiting him, there was a green-skinned male pacing, directing and ordering. Qui-Gon was stunned to recognize Olla.

Olla leaped forward when he saw who was being escorted into his temporary headquarters. “Jedi Qui-Gon! My source was correct, you are still alive!”

“Barely,” Qui-Gon breathed, and collapsed as he passed out.

In time, everything became clear. Qui-Gon was given quarters in the palace, which now belonged to the people of Kallus, and tended to night and day until he regained his health. He learned that he had been imprisoned and tortured for nearly ten days—two weeks in Coruscant reckoning—and had been liberated by the rebels who rose up against Thispin when word got out among the people that he had first called for a Jedi Knight to root out the faction, and subsequently arrested that same Knight for speaking to dissidents. It was the little servant who had done it, who had sparked the flame that swelled into a coup, when she passed word to her allies and kin that Qui-Gon was being tortured for not naming Olla and his supporters. It pained him to think that he was the cause of political upheaval on Kallus, but he realized in time that it would have happened sooner or later, with or without a Jedi’s interference. That they would treat an off-worlder as harshly as one of their own criminals was frightening. But what bothered Qui-Gon the most was the sacrifice made by the servant. “I feel responsible for her, she tried to save me,” he complained to Olla when he came to see how his visitor’s health progressed. “I didn’t even know her name.”

Olla smiled. “Silla was her name. She was very brave.”

“Indeed. Braver than I.” Qui-Gon rubbed at his chin, remembering her cautious and comforting touch against his rough stubble. He was thinking of keeping the beard that was growing in, though it was thin at best right now. “I wanted to save her, Olla. I was ready to say anything they wanted.”

“I believe you, my friend,” the Kallan said kindly. “Your choice was not motivated by yourself, it was her choice as well and it saved us all. We no longer have need to fear here on Kallus.” He rose from his crouch and bobbed his head respectfully. “You acted as you saw fit in the moment. That is all you can ever hope from yourself, whether you are a lord, a layman, or a Jedi. Rest now, my friend. A transport will be coming for you tomorrow.”

***

Master Qui-Gon heard them coming all the way up the corridor, though it wasn’t the noise that woke him from his state, it was the constant alarm signals his mind received from his Padawan. Obi-Wan was looking for him, urgent and persistent in his mental reach, and very near. Qui-Gon focused his mind and reached back, gently assuring his apprentice that he was all right, and close. Relief came back to him, but it was tempered with something he couldn’t identify. At least, he couldn’t until the door of the tiny room swung open to admit light and people.

First came one of the crew members, a heavy-set man who had given Qui-Gon more than his fair share of smacks. There were more men behind him, and they shoved someone in front of them. Squinting against the brightness of the lights, the Master was unsure what was happening until the men shoved their new captive roughly forward. Qui-Gon’s heart quailed in him. _Padawan._

“Master!” The breathless exclamation was laced with worry and care, and a little fear. The door closed tightly, leaving them both in complete darkness. Obi-Wan groped forward. “Where are you?”

“Easy, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said hoarsely, finding his voice with difficulty after so much time silent. “Use the Force. I am right here.”

A tense pause, for the space of a drawn breath. Qui-Gon knew his apprentice was gathering the Force for the power of sight in darkness, and after that pause, manacled hands cupped around his face with no clumsy fumbling. When the fingertips brushed his beard, the Master noticed they were trembling. “What did they do to you?” Obi-Wan whispered, an emotion-laden whisper.

“I’m all right,” Qui-Gon assured with a feeble attempt at a little laugh.

“No, you’re not.” His Padawan’s anguished voice was right in front of his face, and Qui-Gon could feel little drafts of breath as Obi-Wan panted lightly. He had definitely put up a struggle while being captured. The trembling fingers traced his Master’s jaw, cheekbones, nose, and brow, gingerly hovering over cuts and bruises. “You’re hurt.”

“I will be fine, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispered. His throat hurt to speak any louder. “They haven’t gained control over me. The Force has been with me, it is always with me. Are you hurt?”

“Just a scratch or two,” Obi-Wan answered, “they slapped me around a little but…” He sighed morosely. “Forgive me for not being there, Master. I should have gone with you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you ever since I first sensed you were in trouble…”

“Obi-Wan,” his Master cautioned. “It’s not your fault. Put it out of your mind. What matters is, we’re both here now, and we have to find some way out of here before they do to you what they’ve done to me.”

“Yes, Master.” The Force shimmered around them, and Qui-Gon knew by its feel that his apprentice was centering himself, quieting his mind and finding calm without being told to do so. The Force moved a little, then, and there was a clink of metal. “There, that’s off. Those binders were a pain.”

“Obi-Wan!” Qui-Gon hissed. “Put those back on!”

Obi-Wan was bewildered. “What?”

Qui-Gon lifted his hands, letting the rattle of his chains tell their own story. “The last time I did that they nearly broke my neck. Endure it for now, Padawan. I need you to be strong and able when they come for us, I can’t do it myself. If we do not resist them or make open use of our powers, they won’t be as hard on you as they have me. Let me take their torture, I need you to be strong.”

“Master, no,” Obi-Wan faithfully protested. “You’ve been through enough. I’m strong, I can handle it.”

Master Qui-Gon chuckled sadly, and the memories that had surfaced lately came back to him. “I once thought that way, Obi-Wan,” he gently admonished. “I was wrong. The cruelty of other beings can be stronger. Only in the Force can we find what we need.”

No further word came from Obi-Wan, as he settled onto the floor and sadly re-positioned the manacles around his wrists. The click of their locks was torture enough for both of them to hear. Qui-Gon slumped back, shifting his feet out from under him and sitting down. Obi-Wan got up and moved around behind him, gathering the Force for second sight again and letting his hands roam over the welts and cuts on his Master’s back. All he could do was direct the Force toward healing the most obvious injuries, and Qui-Gon sighed gratefully, because he couldn’t focus as easily as his strong, fresh, young Padawan and thus had not done so for himself. The tip of Obi-Wan’s long braid tickled over the bare skin of his back as he hovered. “What happened to you?” the young Jedi wondered.

Qui-Gon told him in the most general of terms what his captors had done, pointing out their advantage of control, location, and intent as well as his disadvantage of being deprived of food, water, and sleep. He wasn’t sure exactly what they wanted, they kept asking him questions about the locations of ships and movement of Republic forces in this sector, which Qui-Gon knew nothing about as he was on his way back to meet Obi-Wan on Corellia. “I never saw the blow coming,” he explained with a stiff shrug of one shoulder. “They surprised me from behind. I was a bit confused that I did not anticipate it, the Force did not warn me, but I accept that now. Somehow, it is the will of the Force. I regained consciousness in here, hands cuffed like yours are, and have been here ever since.”

“When you didn’t arrive at our meeting place, I knew something was wrong,” Obi-Wan said for his side of the story. “I began the search for you immediately. I was fortunate to be able to borrow a fast Corellian shuttle.”

In the darkness, Qui-Gon raised one eyebrow. “Borrow?”

“Well…” his Padawan sheepishly admitted, “it cost me a few dactaris.”

“You haven’t crashed this shuttle, have you?”

Obi-Wan smiled to himself. It was a good sign that despite the damage and wear to his body, his Master’s mind was still healthy enough to retain his dry sense of humor. “Of course not, Master. It’s fine.”

Qui-Gon hummed thoughtfully. “Good.”

They lapsed into silence again, as Obi-Wan sat back and pressed gently on his Master’s shoulder, wordlessly directing him to lie down. Qui-Gon decided to submit, since his spirits had been somewhat raised by the presence of his eager, ready apprentice and he felt able to sleep at last. He stretched himself out as best he could and lay his head in Obi-Wan’s lap, relieved to feel his Padawan’s vibrant, alert presence and the strength of the Force binding them together. Despite the fact that they were both locked up now, Qui-Gon figured the chances of escape had just increased exponentially, and was able to relax and rest. Obi-Wan’s nimble fingers caressed his brow and cheek, wiping away traces of dried blood from his Master’s skin and beard. He paused for a moment, and used the Force to remove the binders just long enough to get his robe off, which he draped over Qui-Gon to make him comfortable. “Just rest, Master,” Obi-Wan whispered. “If they come back for us, I will deal with it.”

“Don’t do anything foolish, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon murmured, already drifting off.

“I won’t.”

A nudge of the Force woke the Jedi Master some time later, as his apprentice prodded him awake through their bond. Rolling his head to one side to listen, Qui-Gon heard the approach of their captors and tried to pull himself up, failing utterly. Obi-Wan helped him sit up just as the door swished open and light cascaded down on them. A couple of men stepped in, looking disdainfully down on their imprisoned Jedi, while Obi-Wan held his shackled hands up to block the light until his eyes could adjust. “I told you someone would come for him,” one of the men griped.

“And we caught him too,” the other said confidently. “You see this? We caught Jedi. That’s almost unheard-of!”

“What do you want with us?” Obi-Wan asked warily, dropping his hands and frowning at the two men.

The second man scowled indignantly. “When you need to know that, you’ll find out!” he sneered, waving a clenched fist. Neither Jedi flinched or looked very scared, though. 

The first man pointed. “Hey, his cloak’s off. He’s gotten out of his binders!”

“I haven’t!” Obi-Wan protested, holding up his arms as proof, but the second man—the heavier of the two—leaped into the cell and knocked him over, descending on him and crunching a knee into the young man’s chest. 

With his arms pinned beneath his attacker’s bulk, Obi-Wan was unable to find leverage to fight back, though he thrashed and twisted and kicked with his legs. It was only a matter of seconds before a fist crashed into his eye, and then again into his jaw. Beyond them, the other man had Qui-Gon by the throat and was holding him back from interfering. The Master had no intention of fighting, he only wanted his voice. He took a breath and shouted, “Padawan!”

Obi-Wan immediately went limp in obedience. When he saw that his toy had ceased struggling, the heavy man swore at them and gave Obi-Wan one more punch in the face before getting up. “What are you, some kind of servant?” he taunted. “Or slave?”

The apprentice rolled back into a sitting position and glared, but kept silent and still at his Master’s direction. “We gotta restrain him too,” the other man determined. “Don’t chain him to the same bolt, though. Get them away from each other.”

They went out in search of more chain, and came back quickly with a length meant to bolt cargo to the floor of the hold. “Master,” Obi-Wan hissed, meaning to question his orders with just that one word.

“Padawan, do as I say,” Qui-Gon implored. 

His shoulders slumping, Obi-Wan obeyed and did not fight when the men grabbed him, hauled him to his feet, and threw him face-first into the wall. There was no place to secure him except a notch high on the wall that ordinarily kept some tool bolted in handy reach, so they looped the chain through it and secured Obi-Wan’s shackled hands to it. The heavier man smacked him a couple of times just for fun before leaving.

Darkness closed around the Jedi again. “Are you all right?” Qui-Gon hoarsely queried.

“Why do you tell me not to resist them, Master?” his apprentice complained. “I can easily take both of them, I can get us out of here.”

“And where would we go then? Down the hall until we run into the next handful of ruffians, and the next?” Qui-Gon sighed wearily. “Do you think that I did not try that myself? That is how I got into the state you see me in, Padawan. These people don’t want anything from us, they torture us because they are cruel and want to.”

Obi-Wan was silent for a long time, standing against the wall and thinking. He realized his Master was right. “What do we do?”

“We shall be patient,” Qui-Gon softly admonished, sitting back against the other wall and letting his shackled hands lay in his lap. “Rely on the Force, Obi-Wan. It has kept me alive. Draw on its strength, and it will keep you no matter what they do to you.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, sinking into meditation, feeling his Padawan do the same after a moment. Though they were out of each others’ reach, their minds met in the Force and comforted one another with presence and courage and other intangible things. Qui-Gon felt his fatigue melting away, while Obi-Wan began to understand the trauma his Master had been through and his wish to spare his apprentice the same. Together they subconsciously resolved to wait, to trust that an opportunity would present itself sooner or later, and they prepared themselves for that opportunity as only Jedi can.

Hours later, the men came back, and this time they brought most of the crew with them, including the captain of the ship. They were laughing and jeering and a few were drunk, and Qui-Gon knew when they appeared that they were out for blood and sport. They had almost killed him last time they came down in a horde like this. He remained still, his eyes closed and body slouched, but Obi-Wan tensed at the appearance of their captors. His instincts were to fight, but the tiny room afforded him nothing to work with. The ship’s men went after him first and foremost, making a few comments about needing information and promising to get it out of him even though they needed to know nothing. The fresh-faced young man in clean white tunics was too much of a target for them to resist. A team of them held him down, each grabbing a limb, while one of the larger crew members used him for a punching bag. Obi-Wan steeled himself moments before the assault began, drawing in the Force and using it to resist the pain of the beating, though his body still underwent the worst pummeling of his young life. He had been beaten by a Hutt before, but this was much worse. 

Someone went to Qui-Gon and forcefully shortened his chains, leaving his wrists shackled directly to the bolt in the floor so he would be unable to get in the way of his apprentice’s assailants. He looked on helplessly, shivers of outrage running down his spine every time a blow fell and Obi-Wan’s face contorted with pain. He felt like he was back on Kallus, watching the innocent suffer for his transgressions, though he had done nothing. Gritting his teeth, the Master could do nothing but look on helplessly, and the helplessness chafed at his connection to the Force.

After a time their captors got tired of what they were doing and started calling for something more exciting. Obi-Wan slumped against the wall, breathing hard, his arms still pinned above his head, sweat shining on his face and neck. Every gasp had a little whimper in it, indicating that breathing was painful for him. “Turn him around,” the captain ordered, and someone did so, shoving the Jedi apprentice’s face against the wall and holding him there with a heavy hand on the back of his neck. The crew jeered in anticipation, shoving past each other like apes to see what was going to happen. Master Qui-Gon pulled himself up as far as he could, on his knees, straining to get free. Obi-Wan’s cheek was flat against the wall, his eyes closed as he mustered himself and tried to reach out for the Force like his Master had taught. The captain groped for a metal rod that they had used before on their other prisoner, which was leaning against the wall, when Obi-Wan’s foot came up and back and shoved the captain all the way across the tiny room, into the corner. Raging and spluttering, the captain recovered himself and stepped up for a good swing. 

Qui-Gon cringed and held his breath as the first blow cracked along his Padawan’s spine, making him cry out and his body go limp. The captain whacked at him for a while, then told someone to loose the chains and let the young man down. Obi-Wan slid to the floor and lay still, wheezing painfully. The captain stepped aside to let one of his heavy-set comrades have a turn, grinning sickly at Qui-Gon as he did. The Jedi Master refused to glare back, even though he bristled at the heartlessness of these creatures. They no longer seemed human to him. The bigger man stood over the lithe young apprentice, kicking his limbs until he lay on his back, spread-eagle and wide-open to attack. He then pointed to the Master crouched in the middle of the room. “This is for you, old man.” He lifted a huge, booted foot and ground it into Obi-Wan’s groin until he screamed.

There was little time. It had to be done all at once, or there was no chance of success. Qui-Gon stilled himself and forced his senses to block out the sound and fury of Obi-Wan’s torture long enough to gather every last shred of the Force his mind could detect. The power filled him and coursed through his mind and body together, prepared to aid him in whatever means he would ask of it. He wasn’t sure if his request was too much, considering the limits his physical condition placed on him, but the Force would respond. The Force would give him what he needed. Trusting, believing, he opened his eyes. The shackles fell from his hands even as he was raising them toward his captors, toward the bullying brute standing over Obi-Wan poised for another kick. The Force rushed outward from the Jedi Master and shoved the man backwards, into his companions and down to the floor outside. Almost at the same time, Qui-Gon demanded that his legs push him to a standing position, and with great pain they managed to obey. Another of his captors leaped into the doorway to restrain him, but the Force drove the Master’s foot in a high, sweeping kick that brought his would-be assailant down at once. He threw Obi-Wan’s robe around him and carefully pulled him up off the floor, being mindful of his visible injuries and any that might not be, and dragged his Padawan’s half-conscious form out of the tiny room and into the cleaner, cooler air of the main hold. He struggled to feed the Force into the muscles of his legs and back so they would not stiffen and cramp from the sudden rush of blood through them after so much time spent in one position. Their captors were still piled on top of each other, but soon they would work themselves free and come after their escaped prisoners. Stumbling, limping, Qui-Gon worked his way through the twisting passageways in a direction vaguely away from the engines, fighting to help his apprentice while his own body protested dramatically at every movement. He became aware that Obi-Wan had regained full consciousness and was reaching for the Force himself, and the vibrant power swelled and reverberated between them until it filled them both and gave their feet a steady gait. A sound behind them made Qui-Gon quickly turn in time to spot the hulking man charging down the corridor before he could surprise them. The Jedi Master flung his hand in the man’s direction, but did not wait to watch the invisible shockwave bowl him over and leave him incapacitated, sprawled against the wall. 

Gasping for breath, Qui-Gon maneuvered Obi-Wan to an alcove at the junction of corridors and eased him to a seat on the floor, needing to pause for reconnaissance and strength. “Obi-Wan?” he wondered. “Are you all right?”

“Relatively,” Obi-Wan panted, wincing at the pain behind his eyes as he tried to look up into his Master’s face. “It…hurts.

”

“I know, Obi-Wan. I know.” He sank to one knee and placed a comforting hand on his Padawan’s head, expecting the worst. His Force-sense was clouded with a shared feeling of agony.

To his relief, Obi-Wan looked up with a steady gaze and clear mind. “We must get off this ship. Soon. There’s no place for us to hide.”

“How do you propose that, Padawan?” Qui-Gon wondered wearily, looking around. No one else had chased them yet, but distant shouts meant the search was on.

Obi-Wan heaved a deep breath, reeling from the dizziness it caused. “My…ship. They tractored it in, it’s docked at an airlock.”

“Can you find the way?” The apprentice nodded. Qui-Gon clenched his jaw briefly at a cramp of pain starting to sting at his calf muscles, but decided to ignore it. “My clothing. Our lightsabers.”

“I saw where they put mine when they took it. Yours was there. Not far,” Obi-Wan assured.

Nodding, the Master bent down and ducked under his Padawan’s arm, hoisting him to his feet again. Without a word of direction, Obi-Wan began to lead him back toward the ship’s main crew sections, drawing again on the Force for strength and guidance. The universal power buoyed them like a life preserver, making it possible to lift one foot and place it in front of the other, steering them to the place they needed to go and ensuring that they got there. Qui-Gon’s initial burst of strength was running thin, his energy waning, but he managed to make his way along a deserted corridor to the docking hold. Shouts started to overtake them, as the crew which had swarmed to watch the blood-sport finally streamed back to their proper positions. A man stepped in their way as they broke into the hold, but Obi-Wan threw his hand outward and sent the man tumbling backwards with the Force. He pulled himself out of his Master’s support and grabbed their lightsabers and a bundle of clothing from the weapons locker before waving Qui-Gon through an archway to the next airlock. Nodding, Qui-Gon lurched for the door and stumbled into the ship’s airlock. The man who had tried to stop them reappeared, then, and attacked Obi-Wan from behind even as he stepped into the airlock to follow his Master. Qui-Gon whirled around. “Obi-Wan!”

“Go!” the Padawan cried, flinging the lightsabers into the ship and turning to engage his attacker. Qui-Gon nearly didn’t, but the Force was still surging around him, warning him of movement coming toward their position from all directions. There was no time, he had to start the ship and take off or they were both going to die. He crept into the cockpit, using the wall to guide and support him, and started snapping switches. The shuttle’s engines ignited and thrummed eagerly, and the Master silently thanked the Force that it was Corellian, well-made and of a very familiar construction to him. He turned and glanced behind him just as Obi-Wan stumbled up the corridor, shouting, “Hurry! They’ll be here any minute!”

“Are you all right?” Qui-Gon worried.

“Better than that man I left in the airlock,” the Padawan groaned, swaying and leaning against one of the seats in the cockpit. He was clearly hurt worse now than when they had escaped their cell, but he ignored it. “Now, Master. We have to go.”

Qui-Gon swung his attention to the controls, though he was dizzy and his eyesight swam. He could do this, he needed to do this. He closed his eyes and drew on the Force for strength, and heard the shuttle’s engines respond to his practiced touch at the controls. He heard a moan behind him, and looked to see Obi-Wan collapse into a heap. The Master grabbed at the steering shaft and wrenched the ship in reverse, feeling the dizziness increasing and overwhelming his senses. He hurriedly punched a few commands into the navicomp before everything went dark and the cockpit floor rushed up to meet him.

  


Master Qui-Gon sighed through his nose. He had heard the reports. The shuttle had come out of hyperspace near enough to Coruscant to get the attention of the high-orbit security sensors. The security team which boarded the ship found him lying unconscious on the cockpit floor, half-naked, bruised, and battered. His apprentice, also unconscious, had been found at his side with his head resting on his Master’s flank. The severity of their injuries was supposed to be confidential, to head off rumors, but still, the Council would no doubt like an explanation. The trouble was, Qui-Gon did not have an explanation. He could barely remember boarding the shuttle and trying to pilot it out of the battleship’s docking bay while his Padawan lay whimpering in pain on the floor behind him. After that, everything was missing from his memory. He sat in an over-stuffed, comfortable chair gazing out the window of the quarters he shared with Obi-Wan in the Jedi Temple, his attention not on the lines of ships criss-crossing the azure Coruscant sky. The healers had told him not to dwell on his ordeal, to give himself time to recover mentally and emotionally before confronting it. But he knew better than they did. He had been through this before, and knew what to do to keep the physical and emotional trauma from destroying him. Still, he shared nothing with his friends and colleagues who came to see how he was recovering, dismissing their concern with his usual soft smiles and quiet assurance. Physically, he was fine. The beatings left no permanent damage; bones healed, bruises faded, and his dehydration was alleviated quickly. The only worry he felt was for Obi-Wan. They would have to talk about this sooner or later.

As if on cue, his Padawan left his bedroom and came in, pausing to gaze at his Master sitting over in that chair in that corner yet again with his robe wrapped around him. “Master?” he softly questioned.

Qui-Gon did not move, his eyes vaguely wandering over the familiar view from his window. Obi-Wan overcame his hesitation and went to him, touching him lightly on the shoulder. The Master finally looked up. “Obi-Wan…please, sit with me.”

Obi-Wan dragged another chair over and sat down beside him, gazing anxiously at him. “Are you all right, Master?”

A faint smile curled Qui-Gon’s lips. “Yes, I am fine,” he said warmly. “It’s you I worry about. Are you all right?”

The Padawan blinked in surprise. “Why…of course, Master. My injuries are healing quickly, I’m almost as good as new.” He pressed a hand to his chest, where broken ribs were healing, but felt fine.

“It’s not your injuries that concern me, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon finally stirred, shifting himself in the chair so he could look directly at his apprentice. “Do you remember what happened after we got on the shuttle?”

Obi-Wan’s young face grew serious. “I barely remember,” he murmured. “I do remember, as we took off, I lost my concentration on the Force and the pain came back, so strongly that I collapsed. Then, I saw you collapse too, and I crawled over to you. You had fainted, but I…I didn’t have a chance to help you. The next thing I remember is waking up in the infirmary.”

Qui-Gon nodded slowly. “Then, we were both unconscious from the time we escaped that battleship to the time we returned here. Thank the Force we were not lost in space somewhere.”

“Indeed, Master.”

Qui-Gon gazed thoughtfully at his Padawan, reaching cautiously out with his mind and finding no resistance, no lingering pain or fear in the young man’s mind. “Do you have anything to say about what happened to us?” the Master wondered.

Obi-Wan stared at his hands folded in his lap for a while, thinking. “Well,” he finally began, “I’m grateful you told me to wait, to hold myself in check and protect myself with the Force. Had I not done that, those people might have broken me. I would not have survived, mentally if not physically.” He looked up, then, fixing his Master with a sad gaze. “But I remember you saying you’ve been through it before. I never heard you say anything about…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Qui-Gon bowed his head for a moment. “It is not something I like to talk about,” he said heavily. “Padawan, do you know anything about Kallus?”

Obi-Wan did not, apart from seeing the name on astro-navigation charts. His Master calmly began to tell him the story, from the beginning, not leaving out any of the horrific details. Obi-Wan stared at him, listening without interruption, his jaw slack, his blue eyes sad and sympathetic. At the news of Silla’s death, he gasped. “Master, no,” he lamented.

“Yes, Obi-Wan. They killed her in front of me, and then blamed me for it.” Qui-Gon sighed, looking away. “When you were captured along with me, I feared that the same thing might happen. That’s why I warned you the way I did. I only wanted to protect you.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and lowered his head, finally realizing the lesson Qui-Gon strove to teach his apprentice in a far kinder way than he himself had learned it. “Thank you, Master,” he said, his voice an emotional murmur. “But, I would not have been able to bear it if they made me watch while they tortured you. I don’t have your control.”

Qui-Gon chuckled sadly. “You’ll learn I do not have control, either,” he cautioned. “I only have the Force to sustain me.”

“I saw that,” his apprentice quietly murmured. “You were able to stay alive, and keep your wits about you. They didn’t break you.” He closed his eyes as if in pain. “Only with the Force.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes lowered. “Keep this lesson close to your heart, my Padawan,” he said, reaching over and laying his large hand over Obi-Wan’s slender one on the arm of the chair. “It will lead you to understand many things which you can’t or don’t understand now. I know you’ve always been taught that the Force is your ally, that it is always with you, but sometimes that’s hard to fathom. Not until you’ve been stretched to your limits, and you have nothing left but the Force itself, can you understand what that truly means.”

“I do understand, Master,” Obi-Wan smiled. “Now.” They sat in silence for a while, pondering the lessons the Force was leading them both to learn. “Perhaps,” Obi-Wan said after a time, “it truly was the will of the Force that we be captured. I don’t know of any other way to learn about this than to go through it.”

A warm smile awakened on Qui-Gon’s face. The vow he made many years ago had just been fulfilled. “We will not speak of this again. After we make our report to the Jedi Council, we will not dwell on the past. We have learned what we can from it, and now we will let it go. I don’t wish to be reminded of the horror ever again.”

His Padawan nodded in enthusiastic agreement. They sat in comfortable silence, both gazing out the window at the day passing lazily and the ships zooming past the great Jedi Temple in their haste to be somewhere else. Obi-Wan broke the silence with an innocent question. “Whatever became of the people on Kallus?”

“Last I heard, Lord Olla was planning to retire as one of the oldest and most beloved rulers of Kallus,” Qui-Gon answered. “He wrought many changes in his time, good changes. There was a lot I never uncovered about the situation I had stumbled into—what Thispin’s motives were, what he actually wanted me to do, how they discovered my involvement with the dissidents. It was apparent that as soon as I appeared to be allied with their faction, Thispin saw me as his enemy.”

“Whatever happened to him?”

“He was imprisoned for a time. The Kallans only wanted him out of office, but the leadership on their planet is a lifetime office. I discovered later that the coup was relatively peaceful. Only the captain was killed, because he resisted. To this day I suspect not even his lord knew of the cruelty with which he extracted information from his captives.” He mused on his memories for a quiet moment. “Perhaps I should compose a letter and have it transmitted to Olla on Kallus. I’d like to find out how he is.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Obi-Wan said with a chuckle, slapping his Master’s hand playfully.

Qui-Gon smiled at his apprentice, his heart glad that the ordeal had not broken his spirit. That would have hurt him more than seeing Obi-Wan killed, he figured. “Padawan, hear me,” he said, and Obi-Wan sat up instantly to obey. “I learned something else on Kallus, which I want you to take to heart as well.”

“Oh, Master? What’s that?”

Master Qui-Gon’s smile glowed with respect and adoration. “It is not good to be alone.”

Obi-Wan smiled humbly. “Yes, Master.”


End file.
